


New Year's Eve, an Uber, and Thou

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Sterek, First Kiss, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Meet-Cute, New Year's Eve, Sickfic, Uber Driver Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-18 12:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Derek is an Uber driver, Stiles is... not well.





	New Year's Eve, an Uber, and Thou

**Author's Note:**

> Based on some click-bait story that I skimmed past in my twitter feed about a guy who uses an Uber for an ambulance and then his Uber driver was kind enough to stay with him in the hospital because all his family lived across the country. Does indeed contain some brief discussion of medical stuff (nothing graphic), and also passing mention of throwing up, so heads up if you're like me and are squicked by that. 
> 
> In honor of the multiple gd ER visits I've had this year. With apologies to Omar Khayyam.

The sun is still low in the sky on this cloudy New Year’s Eve, for all that the solstice was weeks ago and the sun is supposedly returning. It’s still grey and cold, foggy in a way that makes the world seem half-asleep and dreaming, cocooned in the possibilities of the upcoming year.

It’s been a long year, Derek thinks, but not all bad - there are some things he’d change, some things he’d do over, but that’s normal. Life moves on, one day bleeding into the next, the wheel turning, the seasons changing, life growing older and dying and being born again. He exhales across his steaming paper cup, watching as the hot air fogs up the windshield in front of him.

With no warning, the back passenger door of his car slams, and Derek jolts out of his half-focused reverie, only just managing not to spill his coffee all down his shirtfront.

“Czi..” he starts, then frowns in frustration at the accented name that has appeared on his phone where it’s mounted on the heat vent of his dashboard. He’d been parked here long enough he’d thought the ride was about to cancel, but apparently not.

“Yeah, that’s me,” says the man who’s flung himself into the car. His voice is tight with pain, and Derek turns in his seat to stare at him. “But you can call me Stiles.”

The guy must be a college student, or the age of one. His hoodie is red and his jeans worn, and he’s not wearing a hat or coat or gloves in spite of the literal freezing air outside. Derek’s frown deepens at the scrunched look of anguish on the stranger’s face.

“What’s wrong with you,” Derek asks, ignoring the app that’s beginning to peep demandingly at him from his dash. It’s only just now noon, it’s too early for drunk passengers, even in a college town. Maybe still hungover from the night before?

“Really not sure,” he grits out, “but if you take me to the hospital, you can be among the first to know!”

Derek’s eyes widen, but he takes in the waxy tone of the man’s skin, the glistening sheen to his brow, and turns his attention to the road, putting the car in gear and pulling out.

“Don’t yak on my seats,” Derek says, pulling onto the freeway on-ramp, and the guy - _Stiles_ , Derek reminds himself -  just groans in response.

\--

It takes them thirty-five minutes in bad rush hour traffic to make it the four miles across town to the hospital. Stiles slumps sideways against the door about fifteen minutes in, and Derek can feel his blood pressure rising as he steals glances at him in the rearview mirror. At minute twenty-seven, Stiles begins moaning, just a low, constant sound like he can’t keep it in. Derek tailgates like a champ, merging into any lane opening he can manage, knuckles white on the wheel as he curses the modern healthcare system that has people using Uber instead of an ambulance.

He pulls into the ER parking lot at speed, ending the ride and powering his phone off, in too much of a hurry to go through the official end-of-shift sign-off procedures. The slam of the car door as Derek jumps out seems to rouse Stiles enough to get his head up off the window, which makes it easier for Derek to open the door without dumping him on the pavement. It’s still a close thing, though, and Derek catches him by the shoulder as Stiles leans forward and empties his stomach at length onto the asphalt.

_At least it wasn’t in the car_ , Derek thinks sourly, but he looks away and waits until the sounds have abated before asking, “better?”

Stiles just whines wordlessly in response, and Derek turns back to get a closer look at him. He looks awful, pale under a riot of beauty marks, dark circles under his eyes and sweat beading his forehead. Even through the hoodie Derek can feel that he must be burning up, and he braces him again as he sways forward.

“Thanks,” Stiles says wanly, and sets his hands on the doorframe of the car. “And sorry. I can… I can take it from here.”

“Can you even walk?” Derek asks incredulously, as Stiles shoves a hand against his stomach and tries to stand. “You know what, no, okay, we’re just gonna…”

He takes a moment to send up a silent prayer that whatever the hell this kid has isn’t contagious, then steps carefully forward and heaves Stiles up and into his arms. His head lolls alarmingly against Derek’s shoulder as Derek balances him, watching where he puts his feet and hip-checking the door closed, but Stiles manages to get an arm up around Derek’s neck and hang on as they stride across the parking lot. “Nice,” Stiles murmurs absently, patting vaguely at Derek’s chest from where he’s limp in Derek’s hold, and Derek rolls his eyes. He must be edging on delirious if he’s feeling up the stranger whose shoes he just splattered.

Derek has to put him down to get them through the metal detectors, fishing Stiles’ wallet, keys, chapstick, and a rubberband ball out of his pockets and tossing them in the provided tray along with his own pocket detritus before pushing him through and following after. He shoves it all indiscriminately into his own pockets before wrapping Stiles’ arm back around his shoulder and guiding him to the intake desk.

The nurse eyes them as Derek gets them settled into the pair of chairs in front of the low counter. “What seems to be the problem?”

Stiles has settled into a listless and faintly moaning bundle against his side, so Derek grabs at the clipboarded paperwork the nurse slides across the counter.

“Fever, nausea, stomach pain,” he says, digging Stiles’ wallet out of his coat and flipping through the cards until he finds a drivers license. _Stilinski, Czibor G_. Derek shakes his head, and sets to work copying down the address and birthdate as quickly as he can.

“When did it start?” the nurse asks, and Derek pushes an elbow into Stiles’ side.

“Hey,” he says, ignoring the way Stiles’ head is heavy on his shoulder. “When did you get sick.”

“Last night,” Stiles mumbles, eyes closed, “had a stomach ache. Thought it was just shitty dorm food.”

The nurse makes a noise of acknowledgement and gestures to Stiles to come around the desk.

“Come on,” Derek says, keeping Stiles sitting upright with one hand on his shoulder as he stands, “they need to get your vitals.”

Derek will give it to him, Stiles does seem to make an effort to stand under his own power, but he is not even aiming close to vertical, and the stomach pain keeps him doubled over even as he tries to straighten up. Derek gives up and slings an arm under Stiles’ shoulder and guides him around to the waiting chair. The nurse hooks up a pressure cuff, a blood oxygen monitor, and slips a thermometer into Stiles’ ear in a matter of seconds.

“Insurance card?” they ask, and Derek fumbles in Stiles’ wallet until he finds it and hands it over. Stiles has leaned forward in the chair until he’s pressed his burning hot forehead against Derek’s hip and is back to moaning under his breath, pain and misery glaringly obvious, and Derek can feel his patience fraying. He didn’t know this kid from God until an hour ago, but the nurse isn’t even batting an eye, and Derek wants to growl at them to _hurry up and fix this_.

“Okay,” the nurse says, disconnecting the cuff and passing the card back over, “his temperature’s pretty elevated, and he’s clearly experiencing abdominal pain. Has he…oh,” they trail off as Stiles gets himself abruptly upright enough to lunge for nearest trashcan. “That’s a yes to vomiting, then. Okay, I’m going to put you in a room, and the doctor will be with you shortly.”

“ _Very_ shortly?” Derek says pointedly, and the nurse just nods.

\--

The room they’re directed to is not so much a room as a curtained off corner, but Derek helps Stiles get onto the bed and curled onto his side in a fetal position. He looks like hell, and Derek feels his stomach clench with worry. Aside from the occasional broken bone, he and his siblings have always been a disgustingly healthy bunch, and his experience with sickness and hospitals is limited to the brief and quiet hospitalization when Grandpa Hale passed away lo these fifteen years ago.

He takes a moment, watching as Stiles’ chest rises and falls with his breath, and tries to think of what his mother would do.

“Hey, Stiles,” he says, pushing at his shoulder gently. “Who should I call to come stay with you?”

Stiles shakes his head and digs his fingers into the sheets beneath him. “Dad’s across the country,” he murmurs, soft enough Derek has to strain to hear him. “Roommate’s home for the holidays. ‘s just me.”

“Oh,” Derek says, then fishes Stiles’ phone out his pocket. “Well, you should at least let your dad know, right?” He’s about to hand it over when a doctor bustles in, way too chipper and energetic for Derek’s tastes. She’s middle-aged and wearing an aggressively purple pair of glasses, and Derek hopes her skill’s as good as her accessory taste is loud.

“Mr...Stilinski?” she chirps, starting to reach to shake Stiles’ hand, then changing her trajectory so she can pat his foot instead. “I hear you’re not feeling well!”

Stiles moans in agreement, and Derek quietly thinks he’s getting less responsive by the minute.

“He’s got a high fever, stomach pain, and vomiting,” Derek states, and the doctor turns to look at him appraisingly from over the chart she’s examining.

“Not my favorite combo,” she agrees cheerfully, “Mr…?”

“Hale,” Derek says, jerking his head at the bed. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Well,” she says, and moves around the edge of the bed to stand beside Stiles, “here, honey, just lift up your shirt for a sec.” She presses on Stiles’ abdomen, and he gives a shriek that has Derek gritting his teeth and struggling not to shove her away. “I think we’ve got a classic case of appendicitis. That’s gonna have to come out pretty quick there, kiddo,” she says, stepping back down to the foot of the bed as she makes notes on the chart. “We’ll confirm it with an ultrasound before we go in, but given the advanced nature of his symptoms, we’ll take him into surgery in about,” she checks her watch, “the next fifteen minutes. Got any allergies?”

Stiles shakes his head, a tear rolling down his cheek, and Derek throws his usual reserve to the wind and reaches out to wrap a protective hand around Stiles’ shoulder.

“Alright, Mr. Hale, you’ll need a nametag if you’re going to be staying for when this one wakes up from surgery, or else they won’t let you into the recovery room.” She hangs the chart on the end of the bed. “I’ll just get you one. You hang tight, sweetie, we’ll get you all fixed up” she says with a last pat to Stiles’ foot, and bustles off, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

Derek sighs gustily and pulls a hand through his hair before turning to Stiles and shoving the phone into his hand. “Unlock it,” he says, and then adds, “and actually, you should probably tell me your passcode so I can keep your dad up to date.”

“You’re… staying?” Stiles stares at him wide-eyed, and Derek catches himself wishing that they’d met on any other day, because he can see the shape of Stiles’ mouth and the way it opens in surprise to reveal the red of his lips.

“Unless you don’t want me to,” Derek shrugs uncomfortably. “You’re about to go into surgery. Someone should be around when you wake up.”

“Thanks,” Stiles breathes, and clamps a clammy hand down over where Derek’s is still resting on his shoulder. “Here, gimme.” He takes the phone from Derek’s hand and unlocks it, thumbing into his contacts and placing a call, fumbling the phone to his ear. Derek can hear it ring four times and then go to voicemail, can hear the mumbled _fuck_ under Stiles’ breath just before the answering message clicks into place. “Heyyyyy Dad, so, I got real sick and I’m gonna have surgery here in… like ten minutes, but! It’s okay! Derek’s here with me, so you don’t need to worry. He’ll have my phone while I’m under, he can keep you up to date. But I’ll be fine!” Stiles pauses to drag in a deep, shuddering breath, wincing as it pulls at his stomach. “Love you,” he says, much more softly, and hangs up.

He stares at the screen for a long moment before thrusting it back at Derek.

“1066,” he says, and Derek blinks.

“The...battle of Hastings?”

“What?” It’s Stiles’ turn to blink at Derek disbelievingly.

“Your passcode,” Derek answers slowly. “The Battle of Hastings?”

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs, then winces. “Writing my thesis on the Bayeux Tapestry. You?”

Derek shrugs. “I like period fiction.” He slips the phone into his pocket, and awkwardly settles his hip on the edge of the hospital bed. “Anything you need me to do besides talk to your dad if he calls?”

Stiles just shoves his head against Derek’s arm and shakes his head, moaning. The heat of him is sharp against Derek’s skin, so he relents and rubs his free hand through Stiles’ sweat-damp hair. “Okay,” he says quietly, letting his thumb rub against Stiles’ temple. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

\--

“He’ll sleep for a couple hours,” the nurse tells him around three when he comes to get Derek from the waiting area and escort him to a small recovery room, “and when he does wake up, he’ll be pretty out of it for a while. We’ll keep him overnight for observation, but we should be able to release him to go home sometime tomorrow, provided he does well.”

Derek just nods and follows, shoving his hands into his pockets as he takes in the sight of an unconscious Stiles in a hospital gown and hooked up to an IV. Even sick, he’s pretty, all long limbs and beauty marks and thick lashes. Stiles’ driver’s license helpfully informed Derek that Stiles is 23, less young than Derek had first thought, so he doesn’t need to worry about the potential inappropriateness of his attraction. Beyond, of course, the whole _unconscious because of emergency surgery_ thing, he thinks, and sighs.

He sets the plastic bag of Stiles’ clothes and personal items on the top of the small table next to the bed, and settles in to wait.

\--

Stiles sleeps until well into the evening, long enough for Derek to go get food from the cafeteria, come back, eat it while watching Golden Girls reruns, get bored, go to gift shop to buy flowers and a mystery novel, and make it all the way up to chapter five. The writing’s terrible, but the plot’s good enough to keep him entertained, something about a serial killer who just wants to recreate the paintings of the old masters but needs to rethink his choice of materials, and the determined lady detective who’s chasing him through Italy. It makes Derek wish he’d bought some popcorn, but he hadn’t seen any.

Derek doesn’t hear him wake up, there’s no visible or immediately audible change to Stiles’ state of breathing. Instead, he becomes gradually aware of the weight of a stare on him, so he marks his page and lifts his eyes to meet Stiles’.

“Feeling better?” he asks, holding his gaze, and can see the wheels slowly turning in Stiles’ head before he nods.

“You remember who I am?” Derek asks gently, and Stiles frowns.

“I...you’re my...uber driver?” Derek bites his lip not to laugh at the adorably confused face that Stiles makes. “I don’t think I actually… know your name.”

“Derek,” he answers, getting up and going to stand by the bed. “Water?”

“Derek,” Stiles repeats dreamily, and Derek can’t help but smile at the fogginess still apparent in his tone as he hands Stiles the cup of water. He takes it carefully back when Stiles has finished drinking, watching with amusement as Stiles seems to fall asleep between one breath and the next.

\--

The nurse comes in and wakes Stiles to check on him around nine, gets him up and walking around, obligingly takes him in the bathroom and helps him use the necessary and wash up, brush his teeth and run a comb through his hair. Derek can still smell hospital on him when he comes out, but he looks much more human than Derek’s seen him so far. He’s still a little dopey from the pain meds, but there’s a little color in his cheeks, a spark in his eyes.

Stiles gets settled back into bed in a clean hospital gown, dark hair a riot on his head, and Derek settles back into the discomfort of the lone chair.

“What?” he says after a long moment, the intensity of Stiles’ gaze on him too much to continue to ignore.

“I’m… out of surgery now,” Stiles says, “you… you don’t have to stay.”

“Told your dad I would.” Derek rolls his head on his neck, working out a kink. “He’ll be here around ten tomorrow morning, said he got a red-eye.”

Stiles eyes go comically large. “He _what_.”

“He said to stay with you until he got here,” Derek says, and shrugs. “Seemed reasonable to me. You’re his only kid. He worries.”

“You…” Stiles trails off in disbelief, shaking his head. “But you’re going to lose so much money! The Uber prices on New Year’s Eve must be _insane_ , don’t you need to be out there?”

“Eh,” Derek says, “I was working the day shift for a reason. I hate driving drunks, and the roads are gonna be a nightmare tonight. I’m good.”

“...huh,” Stiles says, and maybe the pain drugs are contagious, Derek thinks as he watches Stiles settle back into the pillows, because he’s feeling pretty dopey himself.

\--

They put on a countdown show around ten thirty, Stiles having slept enough throughout the day, drugged and otherwise, that he’s no longer sleepy, and Derek’s pretty wide awake from the amount of shitty hospital coffee he’s been nursing. The quiet between them is comfortable, broken occasionally by jokes about the commentators or comments on the questionable fashion choices of the presenters.

The silence becomes increasingly heavier as the clock wears down, the final breaths of the year drawing to a close, and Derek wonders if it’s a sign that he’s overstayed his welcome. Stiles’s face has gotten progressively more pinched, his responses to Derek’s TV snarking less witty and more monotone, his body language more closed off. It wasn’t a logical decision, staying, and maybe that was a mistake. Maybe it’s too awkward for Stiles, sitting in a backless cotton shirt with a man he’d never met until twelve hours ago, maybe he’d rather be alone.

“Hey,” Derek says, “I should have asked. I know I told your dad I'd stay, but.” He examines his hands, looking in vain for better answers. “Do you want me to go?”

“Oh!” Stiles exclaims, his face lighting up with a complex shift of emotions, waving his arms in a way that makes Derek fear for the IV, “no, it’s not that. It’s really kind of you to stay. Even if it is because of my dad. And I don’t… actually want to be alone.”

“Okay,” Derek says, “then why are you acting like someone kicked your puppy?”

Stiles sighs and looks away, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s dumb,” he says finally. “It’s just that… well, you know the whole ‘kiss someone at midnight’ thing, right?”

“Sure,” Derek answers. “Good luck, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “my parents were always really into it. Not in like a, heavy make-out under the mistletoe kind of way, but just… an affectionate way. I always thought I’d be the same, but… this is my first New Year’s not at home, and first I figured, you know, grad school, maybe I’d meet someone and it’d take care of itself.” He shrugs, playing with his fingers, and Derek can’t look away from the quiet fidget of his hands. “That didn’t happen, which is fine, I mean, these things take time. So then I figured I’d just go to a party and find someone nice, and that’d work, I mean, it’s just a tradition, a superstition, I guess.” He laughs, but there’s tension in it, and Derek can see suddenly the fatigue of the rough day showing through in the hunch of Stiles’ neck. “But now… I mean, fuck, here I am in a hospital bed, all hooked up to things. Pretty sure I’m out of luck.”

Derek takes a deep breath, blows it out. “Well,” he says, “maybe not.”

“Why,” Stiles says, turning to twitch an eyebrow at him, “you seen any cute nurses wandering around? Think you could flag one down for me?” He’s clearly kidding, but they’re in the last minute according to the TV, so Derek stands up and comes over to the bed, bracing one hand on the bed rail.

“What about me?” Derek asks, careful to wait for permission as Stiles eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. Derek can hear the TV begin to count down _ten...nine...eight..._ behind him as Stiles nods frantically, making Derek smile as he curls his hand around Stiles’ cheek and leans in.

It’s brief and sweet, Stiles’ lips warm and chapped beneath his, and he pulls back as the TV explodes into cheers and shouts. He can hear the first boom of fireworks outside, but all he can see is Stiles’ delighted face.

“Happy New Year,” Derek whispers, and Stiles starts to laugh.

 


End file.
